Jack Cannon's American Destiny

Rachel Thompson

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Rishona
unclasped her cloak and flung it to the floor at Mechnes’s feet. “You
are not to question my wisdom or my will in public. Ever.”

Mechnes
could not help but smile at the sight of his niece, now a grown woman
pretending to give him orders. “With all due respect, San’iloman, I am
your military advisor. It is my duty to speak my mind when the weight of
my experience contradicts your rather naïve instincts.”

She
moved to strike him, but he caught her wrist and forced her arm until
she gasped. “It is a little early in the day to start with these games,
my Queen. But if you desire a spark of conflict to brighten this weary
morning, I am more than willing to please you.”

Rishona
kept her eyes hard as stone and her voice taut with menace. “Speak your
mind, Mechnes, but do so with discretion. I will not have our
disagreements heard by those who would use them to spread malicious
rumors against me. Nor will I have our men, who have struggled long and
hard up this wretched pass, fall victim to any suspicion that our unity
of purpose is wavering.”

He
brought her body tight against his, let his breath fall upon her silky
skin until he felt a shiver pass through her, followed by the softening
of her shoulders and the almost imperceptible tilt of her face that
always preceded that ardent kiss.

Before their lips met, he released her. “We must open up this road if we hope to bring a proper army through it.”

“We
cannot bring down any more trees,” she insisted. “We are undermining
the power of this forest. We need its magic for everything that is to
come.”

“This
is a very big forest.” He drew out one of their maps, passing his hand
over the moss green crescent of impenetrable woodland that swept north
toward East Selen and south along the foothills of the Paramen
Mountains. “And a very small pass.”

Rishona
stared at the map, lips protruding in that familiar charming frown. She
rubbed her arms to ward off the damp chill. Noting her discomfort,
Mechnes retrieved a dry cloak and placed it about her shoulders.

“I
hope you are right,” she said. “It is just that every time we bring
down one of those trees, I feel strength torn out of the earth. I fear I
went too far by clearing the valley where my parents died.”

“You are Syrnte, Rishona. Your magic derives from the air.”

“Yes,
but these creatures were not banished to the Underworld by Syrnte
magic. They were imprisoned by the mages and magas of Moisehén, and they
must be summoned by the same powers. I will need the air to anchor my
spirit when I summon them, but without the earth I cannot control them.”

Mechnes
narrowed his eyes. “If you have doubts regarding your ability to manage
these beasts, you should have mentioned them before now.”

“I
have no doubts.” She looked up at him, defiant. “I know how to gratify
the Naether Demons and bring them into our service. But there are many
elements involved, and they must be integrated carefully. No one has
attempted this before, uncle. Or if they have, they failed miserably,
and hence we know nothing of their fate.”

“Are
you ready to summon these beasts or not?” He did not bother to hide the
threat in his tone. Already he had poured tremendous resources into
this conquest. He would show no mercy if she had deceived him.

Rishona
straightened her shoulders, expression resolute. “Yes, I am ready. For
tonight, I am most ready. And for what is to come, I have time to
prepare.”

Lands Ravaged. Dreams destroyed. Demons set loose upon the earth.

War
strikes at the heart of women’s magic in Moisehén. Eolyn’s fledgling
community of magas is destroyed; its members killed, captured or
scattered.

Devastated
yet undaunted, Eolyn seeks to escape the occupied province and deliver
to King Akmael a weapon that might secure their victory. But even a High
Maga cannot survive this enemy alone. Aided by the enigmatic Mage
Corey, Eolyn battles the darkest forces of the Underworld, only to
discover she is a mere path to the magic that most ignites their hunger.

What
can stop this tide of terror and vengeance? The answer lies in Eolyn’s
forgotten love, and in its power to engender seeds of renewed hope.

HIGH MAGA is the companion novel to EOLYN, also available from Hadley Rille Books.

Friday, August 29, 2014

I
recently had the good fortune to reach the point in my writing career
where I could quit my job and devote my time to writing full-time. Prior
to that point, I had a job that kept me on the road a lot. I did all my
writing while alone at night in various hotel rooms. I had a vision
that once I quit my job, I would spend my time sitting in my home office
typing away on my computer writing my next big novel. What I didn’t
count on were the many distractions there are that can fill up a day. As
a wife and mother, I found myself using the time at home alone to do
chores such as housework, grocery shopping, etc. Then, I would look at
the clock and see that the kids would be home soon, and I hadn’t done
any writing. It took me a while to realize that I was going to need to
set up a schedule that included time specifically dedicated to writing. I
have settled into a good routine, where I can spend 5-6 hours per day
writing four days per week. I have dedicated one day to household
chores. This schedule has seemed to work for me. My evenings are filled
with family activities. I have a teenage daughter and an elementary
school age son. They both keep me hopping with their schedules. I am
very grateful that I can now enjoy all their various activities, instead
of spending evenings alone on the road. I’m pretty sure my husband is
happy about that as well.

As
far as what I like to do outside of writing, I am an avid sports fan,
especially college football and basketball. I try to watch every
Oklahoma State University game that is televised and try to attend at
least one game each year. I also enjoy spending time outdoors. I have a
large rose garden and several fruit trees in my yard, so during the
spring and summer, I spend a large amount of time gardening. I also love
walking, and when the weather permits, try to spend at least one hour
each day walking.

From the author of “Dogs Aren’t Men” comes “To Love a Cat”, a contemporary romance novel.

Catherine
“Cat” James’ life is simple and orderly, and she likes it that way. She
loves her job as an accountant. Working with numbers is safe and
routine, no surprises. Her childhood had been very abusive and unstable.
She vowed not to live that way as an adult. She also made a promise to
herself to become a foster parent. She wished someone had been there for
her as a teenager, to let her know she wasn’t alone.

Cat
agrees to foster Ethan Summers, a troubled teenage boy whose childhood
closely resembles her own. Suddenly, her nice and orderly life is filled
with chaos and uncertainty. Things really start to spin out of control
when circumstances bring police detective Mitch Holt into the picture.
He’s handsome, charming, and definitely not what Cat needs right now, or
so she thinks.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Writing
for me is always a journey of exploration. As I’m creating the story,
I’m waiting with baited breath to see what happens next so writing adds
excitement to my life. Laughter is good therapy, and I often laugh at
the antics of my characters and some of the doozies that come out of
their mouths. I sometimes cry as I’m writing an emotional scene. A good
cry now and then is therapeutic and cleanses the emotions. Writing to me
is fun and entertaining. I always learn something during my research.

I
usually develop a love story in my books to give the novel a heartbeat,
and because I am a closet romantic. I confess that I often fall in love
with some of my characters, especially the male leads. It was
particularly fun to create the love story of Mandy Balboa and the flawed
Christopher Michaels in I Will Always Love You.

I
often visit Manhattan to see family and love the city. Like everyone
else around the country, I was devastated when the terrorists destroyed
the World Trade Center. Writing I Will Always Love You a few
months after the 9/11 attacks helped me to deal with the tragedy and my
feelings. Everything was still fresh in my mind. However, I chose not to
publish the book until recently.

I Will Always Love You centers
on the love story between the characters. It takes place two weeks
after September 11, 2001. Manhattan and the tragedy is merely the
setting, a place for two lost souls to come together. The book was a way
for me to cope with my feelings, and to honor the victims and
Manhattan.

I
come from a dysfunctional family. My father was a bigamist and
abandoned my family when I was 11. My mother died when I was 16. I found
that writing The Bigamist & The Womanizer, Memoirs of My Father provided therapy. As I get time, I am working on a memoir entitled A House of Sticks.

Words
come from the heart. Writing about a certain matter helps me deal with a
situation. People who visit a therapist talk about issues to help in
understanding and dealing with life. Writing can, also, help get bugs
out of a person’s system; perhaps not in one take, maybe not forever,
but writing can be like a good cry. You feel better about it.

Reading can help accomplish the same thing. Even fiction can be a self-help book.

The last thing Miranda ever expected was to see her brother’s ghost at the fallen Twin Towers.

It’s
bad enough survivor Christopher Michaels scares her with claims that if
one dies violently, his ghost will haunt the place that holds his name.
And to top it all, one of those thousands of ghosts follows Miranda to
her hotel. The only certainty is the ghost grabbing her under the covers
is not Jake.

Their
parents’ deaths separated Miranda from Jake when they were kids.
Michaels insists Jake brought them together and it’s no coincidence that
of thousands mourning at Ground Zero, it’s his best friend she bumps
into. Some best friend. Michaels is more like a moocher. The cheapskate
never has money, just a blood-stained wallet he broods over. Miranda has
no choice but to hang out with the weird Michaels in order to unravel
her brother’s past.

As
Miranda spends time with Michaels, she begins to wonder who he really
is. Against her better judgment, Miranda becomes emotionally entangled
with Michaels, a bitter alcoholic with a secret linked to her brother
and that blood-stained wallet.

I Will Always Love You is part mystery, suspense and romance, a novel that will keep the reader turning the pages!

Parnell
was an old man operating at the pace of a teenager, still battling to
make a difference, to add something to life, and he talked to the
assembled internet generation as if they were equals. Even though he was
fighting frailty and in need of a permanent nurse, his passion infected
the room and enthused the listeners. Amazing. And far from being trite,
his literary reference actually stirred something within Hendrix. We have a duty to not go gentle into that good night, he repeated to himself.

“That was brilliant,” said Joan, intruding on his self-comparison with the seventy-year old.

“Yes.”
Hendrix replied limply. He smiled. Joan had a future, but honestly, he
couldn’t see how a man like Parnell would be interested in owning a
magazine obsessed with oversize animals and UFO conspiracies.

They began filtering out of the conference room.

“You going to start tweeting now, Aitch?” asked Joan.

Her
words flashed him a surge of his mobile-phone paranoia, but he quickly
hid behind sarcasm, “Not sure I can edit my features down to a hundred
and forty characters Joan. Maybe you can help?”

He was briefly horrified when she took the comment at face value, “Sure, I’d love to,” she said.

A
stand-off. He stared into her eyes for a second and saw the hint of a
smile. He laughed and Joan’s smile broadened. He could be generous and
adddry sense of humourto her unfavourable character analysis, and despite the crescent-moon eyebrows her smiling face was not unattractive.

“Tom’s got another trip for you? Somewhere up north this time,” she said. “You’re getting about a bit.”

“Young,
free and single.” God, that sounded like a come on. “I mean, I don’t
have any ties here at the moment,” he stammered. He felt his ears
turning purple. Joan appeared not to have noticed. They walked around
the central column of the building towardsStrange Phenomena’sisland of furniture.

He pulled the swivel chair out from under his desk and sat down.

“Any idea what it is?” he said.

She
shrugged. “Ghosts, I think. Don’t forget to tweet. Especially if you
catch one,” she said, as she disappeared behind the vanity screen.

A
man emerges from the sodden undergrowth, lost, lonely and starving he
is mown down by a speeding car on the edge of a remote forest.

A
renowned forensic research establishment is troubled by impossible
results and unprecedented interference from an influential drug company.

Hendrix 'Aitch' Harrison is a tech-phobic journalist who must link these events together.

Normally
side-lined to investigate UFOs and big-beast myths, but thrust into
world of cynical corporate motivations, Hendrix is aided by a determined
and ambitious entomologist. Together they delve into a grisly world of
clinical trials and a viral treatment beyond imagining.

In
a chase of escalating dangers, Aitch must battle more than his fear of
technology to expose the macabre fate of the drugged victims donated
to scientific research.

That afternoon, over drinks on the porch, Colin watched Tyler.
Knowing him as he did, he had expected an anxious jauntiness, a mix of
groom’s day-before jitters and Tyler’s characteristic bravado. Instead,
his friend seemed oddly subdued. Colin put it down to tennis exhaustion
initially, but as the afternoon wore on, it seemed to him that his
friend was like a man in slow motion, slogging as if through hip-deep
mud, not toward the matrimonial altar but toward execution. A dead man
walking. Colin put himself in Tyler’s place: if he’d been about to marry
Pete, he’d feel only elation.

He’d be over the moon. But would he ever
have put himself in Tyler’s place? Would he ever have asked Pete if she
loved him, asked her to marry him? No, it wasn’t his place to do so. It
would never be his place. He was not one of them.

After dinner, in a spasm of traditionalism, Pete banished Tyler from
her sight until the morning’s ceremony. It was bad luck, she said, for
him to see her again until she was in her wedding gown, approaching the
minister—her own father—on the arm of old Adam Strong, Tyler’s uncle.As the dishes were being cleared, Pete appeared at Colin’s side.“I need a walk on the beach. Will you come?”“Of course.”She smiled and took his arm.

The two of them sloshed along the tide line for a while in
companionable silence. To the west, the sun had dipped behind the
fir-clad hills and the cobalt blue sky began fading to the color of
robin’s eggs.

Across the outer harbor and beyond the low hills of Maury
Island the almost iridescent white cap of “the mountain,” as everyone
here called towering Mount Rainier, had turned the color of pale Spanish
sherry. All around them the visible world seemed to slip from three
dimensions to two, the low hills flattening to a navy blue screen.

Colin finally spoke. “You okay, luv?”

Pete squeezed his arm against her side and smiled but said nothing.

A little farther on, looking out across the darkening water, she
said, “It’s what was meant to be. All along. This is where it’s all been
going.”

“This wedding?”

“Well, marrying Tyler, anyway.”“You act as if it was inevitable.”“I wouldn’t say that.”“What would you say?”She paused. “Preordained. I think that’s what I’d say…preordained.”“As in, not a choice?”“As in part of the plan, part of the natural order of things.”“I never took you for a fatalist.”“I’m not.“Then…?”“Life is what you’re given; this is what I’ve been given.”

“That’s bullshit. Life is what you make of it.”

To his surprise, she giggled.

“What?”

She hugged his arm again. “If I’d been given as little as you were,
I’d believe life was what I made of it, too. But I have had a certain
degree of privilege, haven’t I?”

“With no mother and an absentee father?”

“No, with the interwoven safety net of the Petersens, the Strongs,
and, to a lesser extent, perhaps, the Rutherfords, not just here on the
beach but in town, too. We’re like a tiny galaxy, held together by our
own form of gravity. That’s part of what draws Tyler and me together,
what keeps us together.”“The weight of history?”

“No. Or at least not just that. Something else, but I think it’s
related We are known to each other. Do you know what I mean? I think
everyone, deep down, longs to be known—truly known—to someone.

There is
such a comfort in that. I think that’s the foundation of love. Tyler and
I, we’ve always had that.”Colin wanted to argue with her, but there wasn’t any point. He’d
never pressed his case and this wasn’t time to start. He nudged the
conversation off on a tangent.“If that’s the case, what’s up with Tyler this afternoon? Where’s the dazzled groom?”Pete said nothing for a moment. She used the soles of her feet like
paddles to spray seawater out ahead of her as she walked through the
shallows. Finally, she spoke.“I think it’s his mother. She’s not coming.”“Mother? He’s never said a thing to me about his mother.”“No, I don’t suppose he would have.”“Meaning?”

Again, silence.

“Tyler’s dad, Richie Strong?” she said finally. “He was a famous pilot.”

“So he said, but he’s never told me much about him, either.”

“He seldom does. But I will. You deserve an answer. Tyler’s dad was
something of an aviation hero. Went to Billie Boeing’s flight school
down in Oakland before the war. He was maybe twenty. Came home with a
commercial pilot’s license and a wife, Amanda James. She was a secretary
at the school; I don’t think she was even eighteen yet. American
Airlines, which was only a couple of years old, had already heard about
Richie from Boeing and they snapped him up.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. And then, in World War II, the president of American Airlines,
a guy named C. R. Smith, was made head of something called the Air
Transport Command. Their job was to ferry planes filled with equipment
and soldiers back and forth across the Atlantic. Tyler’s dad was one of
the first pilots Smith commandeered under the war powers. Apparently,
Smith already had Richie on his radar screen. Tyler’s uncle…”

“Old Adam?”

“Yeah, well Old Adam told me Smith used his brother for all kinds of
top secret missions. One story is he took General Mark Clark, who was
tight with Eisenhower, deep into North Africa to oversee the campaign
against Rommel there. The plane he piloted was flanked by a dozen
fighters.”

“Impressive.”

“Yeah. Old Adam’s crazy about his kid brother. It’s very sweet.
Anyway, after the war, Richie went back to American Airlines. He was
already one of their most senior pilots and he was only thirty. Flew for
them from then on, from prop planes to jets. Then he was killed.

“What, he crashed or something?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Oh, man…”

“In a car.”

They’d reached the far west end of the beach, where the sand gave way
to sharp, barnacle-encrusted rocks. When they turned, they could just
see the tip of Rainier, above the hills across the harbor, glowing as if
aflame.

“For years,” Pete continued, “everyone said it was an accident;
Richie was driving his car, a convertible, too fast. Hit a telephone
pole. Nineteen sixty-two.”

“Shit. All those years in the air and he dies on the ground. That’s so ironic.”“And wrong.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“No, I mean it didn’t happen that way.”

“What?”

“Tyler’s father killed himself.”

Colin stopped and stared at her. “Jesus, Pete!”

“It’s all about Amanda.”

“Tyler’s mom?”

“I got this from Old Adam, after several bourbons, okay? Tyler doesn’t know I know. Please don’t say anything.”

“Okay. Promise.”

“Old Adam and his wife Emily made room for Richie and Amanda at the
beach house, right here, after they’d married. Emily was the only
daughter of Silas Wolfenden, the founder of Wolfenden Industries, the
timber giant, and Silas gave Adam and Emily the land here on the beach.
Silas had cut all the timber decades before and it was all new growth
then. Old Adam’s got a big heart; he built the smaller Strong beach
house next door to his own for his brother and Amanda. But Emily never
trusted Amanda. Figured Amanda had seen that Richie was going places and
just latched on to him for the ride.”

Pete paused and looked out over the darkening water.

“And?” he said after a few moments.

“And she was right. American Airlines based Richie in Chicago. Richie
was gone a lot, building a career, and Amanda landed a job as a
stewardess. For the next ten years they both flew, though not together,
and put off having kids. Adam said word was Amanda was a quite a party
girl. In 1950, when Amanda was twenty-nine, Jamie was born. But she
didn’t settle down.”

“Okay, I’m not following here. I thought they were married a long time. They had two kids.”

“Yeah, Jamie…”

“And Tyler.”

“Right, but Tyler came along much later, when Amanda was nearly forty.”

“And Tyler’s father killed himself? I don’t get that.”

“Old Adam told me his brother Richie came home early from a trip,
found the house empty, Jamie with a sitter, and went looking for his
wife. Found her at her favorite bar, right there in their neighborhood
outside Chicago. She was wrapped around the bartender. Not the first
time, either.

Richie turned around, climbed in his car, headed out fast
into the countryside. Police figure he drove straight into that pole.
Died instantly. Or maybe he really died back at the bar, you know? I
mean, how can someone who has a kid commit suicide? I think some part of
them has to be dead already to do that.”

Pete had stopped, and, reflexively, Colin put his arms around her. She did not withdraw.

“Man; that must have been hard on Tyler.”

Pete pushed away and continued walking.

“Tyler wasn’t even born yet. He came along eight months later.”

“Wait. Was Richie even Tyler’s dad?”

“Good question.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“He believes he’s Richie’s son, the son of a hero and flight pioneer; it’s Amanda who doesn’t know.”“Shit.”

“She swears he is. Problem is, as Old Adam tells it, the math doesn’t
work. Richie couldn’t have been the father; he was away, flying.”

“This is tough.”

“But Amanda wasn’t done.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It wasn’t enough for her.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Having a dead hero for a husband. She wanted a son who was a hero,
too. She wanted a fucking parade of heroes, if only to put the spotlight
on her mothering instead of her adultery.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“It’s simple; when Richie died, she pushed Jamie to live up to
Richie’s legend. The kid joined the Marines first chance he could, got
sent to Viet Nam, and was so gung-ho he’d already been made a company
commander by the time they sent his unit to Khe Sahn. The battle of Khe
Sahn, which was at the end of his tour, was a bloodbath. A week before
he was to be discharged—he already had a Purple Heart by then—Jamie dug a
hole, climbed into it, and issued orders to his company from it. He
didn’t want to get shot just days before going home.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah, except he took a direct shell hit instead. Nothing left of him but the dog tags.”

“Jesus.”

They were now nearly parallel to the Petersen compound. Pete stopped and looked at her friend.

“So Amanda drilled it into Tyler that he had two heroes to live up
to, his father and his brother. And she never let him forget it.”

Every summer for generations, three
families intertwined by history, marriage, and career have spent “the
season” at their beach cottage compounds on an island in Puget Sound.
Today, Martha “Pete” Petersen, married to Tyler Strong, is the lynchpin
of the “summer people.” In childhood, she was the tomboy every girl
wanted to emulate and is now the mother everyone admires.

Colin Ryan, family friend and the island’s veterinarian, met Pete first
in London, years earlier, when she visited his roommate, Tyler. He’s
loved her, privately, ever since. Born in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen,
son of a bar owner, he’s always been dazzled by what he sees of the
sun-kissed lives of the summer people.

But this summer, currents strong as the
tides roil: jealousies grow, tempers flare, passions clash. Then, on the
last day of the season, a series of betrayals alters the combined
histories of these families forever.

As in previous novels, The Long Walk Home
and Water, Stone, Heart, with Seasons’ End, Will North weaves vivid
settings and memorable characters into a compelling tale of romance and
suspense.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

When
I returned to school the next Monday, it became a little harder to
ignore that something had changed. Getting out of bed in the morning was
even more difficult than usual. I mean, yeah, sure, I had stayed up
super late the night before finishing up a forty-man raid with some
dudes on the west coast. But it’s not like that was new to me or
anything.

Everything
looked different as I entered into the vivid, fast-paced chaos of my
high school. I stared, bleary eyed, at the mobs of students, my
theoretical peers, moving in and out of doorways, around lockers,
through the halls. They looked like schools of tropical fish, brightly
colored and somehow swimming in formation despite the disorder around
them. I wondered what it’d be like to move among them. I mean, yeah, I
walked among them. But I wanted to, you know, swim. It seemed like
everyone else had figured out some sort of secret, had learned how to
make our time in this ocean bearable.

Until
then all I’d wanted was to wait out the rest of my teen years in the
hopes that I’d earn passage into a bigger, better, infinitely more
interesting world. Now, for the first time, I wondered if that had been a
mistake. I mean, what if this was all I got in the end? Maybe I should
have been making the most of it. After all, if I really were dead and
gone, how many of them would even notice?

I
sighed as I opened my locker, wondering if everyone who had a near
death experience got this emo about it. I was reaching up for my biology
book when something crashed into my locker door, slamming it closed.

“Sure,”
I replied, a little startled. He gave me a quick once over, then nodded
before trotting back to his friends down the hall. I reached into my
locker again to grab the textbook when I noticed a small cut on the
middle finger of my right hand, and white indentations on the tips of
the other three fingers.

What the hell?

The
hand worked just fine as I pulled the book down, my fingers functioning
normally as they curled around the cover and carried its weight for the
short journey between shelf and backpack. It should have hurt like hell
when the locker slammed into them.

Max
McKay gets a second chance at life when, after a bizarre accident on
his sixteenth birthday, he is reanimated as a new breed of thinking,
feeling zombie. To secure a spot for his eternal soul, Max must use his
video game prowess as well as the guidance of Steve the Death God to
make friends and grow up. As if all that weren’t hard enough, Max
discovers that he’s not the only zombie in town. As he enlists the help
of his new friends, Adam and Penny, to solve the mystery of their
un-dead classmate, Max discovers that he must level up his life
experience in order to survive the trials and terrors of the upcoming
zombie apocalypse. And, even worse, high school.

Friday, August 22, 2014

There
are three primary schools of thought when it comes to writing a novel,
pointing to the two extremes available, and the road between them. The
two diverging ways are affectionately called the Plotter and the
Panster, while the third way is largely unnamed, being a mingling of the
others.

The
Plotter creates intricate plans of how the story will be told, from
chapter summaries to, in the more extreme examples, a synopsis of the
entire book, scene by scene. An author with this approach might spend
just as much time with the outline, rewriting and revising it, than the
finished product itself. The framework is put firmly in place, and then
the rest is filled in until the book is complete.

The
Pantser, on the other hand, takes the opposite approach. A theme or
character might pop into mind and the author sits down and goes with the
flow, seeing where it brings him or her, often being as surprised by
the story as the reader will be later. In some cases the author does not
even have any sliver of an idea for the book at all, but simply opens
up a blank page and begins an exercise almost like automatic writing.

My
experience and research suggests that authors are usually somewhere
between these two extremes, rarely entirely at one end or the other, but
that we tend to lean more towards one approach, while in some cases the
preference depends on the book in question.

A
good example of the ambiguity of approaches to writing is J.R.R.
Tolkien, whom many would, at the outset, consider a Plotter, given the
sheer volume of planning that went into The Lord of the Rings and his other writings, not to mention the numerous appendices.

However, his own words speak differently. In his Foreword to The Fellowship of the Ring,
Tolkien said: “This tale grew in the telling…” He clarified later: “As
the story grew it put down roots (into the past) and threw out
unexpected branches: but its main theme was settled from the outset…”

Here
we see then that Tolkien, like many writers, had a primary idea in
mind, but did not know all of the details before the writing process
began. When the pen was put to the page, with the intent of driving a
character to a particular event or experience, things began to take
shape in unintended ways.

Personally,
I usually come up with a seed idea, something that thematically sets
the stage for everything that will follow, or, as is often the case,
precede it. The thought that will germinate into a story for me is often
how it ends, and I work backwards in my mind to where the story must
start in order to bring about that ending. With the A and Z in place,
there is sufficient confinement, a reasonably wide, yet not too broad,
vessel in which to contain the story; many, and perhaps all, of the
letters in-between remain unknowns until they are encountered.

Likewise,
a story may begin with a character, who is then dropped into a world or
placed in a scenario in which they, with their unique personality, must
respond. Often the thoughts, words or actions of these characters are
initially shocking to the author, yet make perfect sense in retrospect,
when the author considers that the character, with his or her various
personality quirks, can act no other way. Thus the character comes alive
and drives the story, while the author merely records it, hoping to
capture the events as they unfold, and hoping to deliver to the reader
something approximating the experience the author undergoes—the
experience of life and living, through the eyes of another.

THE DYING BREATH. THE DYING WILL. THE DYING HOPE.

After
the catastrophe of the Call of Agon, Ifferon and his companions find
themselves in the unenviable situation of witnessing, and partaking in,
the death of another god—this time Corrias, the ruler of the Overworld.

With
Corrias locked inside the corpse of the boy Théos, he suffers a fate
worse than the bonds of the Beast Agon. Yet hope is kindled when the
company find a way to restore the boy, and possibly the god, back to
life.

The
road to rebirth has many pitfalls, and there are some who consider such
meddling with the afterlife a grave risk. The prize might be life
anew—but the price might also be a second death.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

The
room was not completely dark. High above the floor, five window slits
provided flickering bursts of light whenever distant lightning struck.
Beneath dark wooden beams, flashes created menacing shadows that quickly
disappeared until the next glimmer.

Huddled in a corner with her sister, Emily, the wait became excruciating for Elizabeth. Where was the stalker now?

A
large stone fireplace under an antlered head of a stag stood at the far
side of the room. She decided to edge over to the hearth and look for a
tool or piece of wood which could be used against the blackguard.

On
hands and knees, she carefully advanced along the room’s perimeter
trying not to make any noise. Fifteen feet, ten feet, five.., she felt
the bricks. She reached out for a poker, but had to settle for a
two-foot log, three inches in diameter. Clutching her prize, she turned
to start back. A new creak punctured the air in the middle of the room.

She froze.

Several
English chairs and Queen Anne upholstered seats rested between game
tables, turned at various angles to her sight. The sound had come from
there. She stared at the outlines.

Lightning
flashed again. To her terror, a dark figure rose behinda seat turned
away from the chimney. Light disappeared before she could see anything
more.

Elizabeth’s mind raced, wondering if she had been heard.

Another flash. The figure had moved toward Emily’s corner.

“Emily! Emily!” she screamed. “Wake up. Someone’s coming toward you!”

She
could hear Emily stirring, muttering words that made it clear she did
not understanding their plight. She had to help her sister! Her legs
felt weak and a rush of panic welled up inside her. She could not move.

Glint came again. The figure had stopped.

William
Darmon and wife Elizabeth were powerful figures who in 1818 set
society’s pace from expansive grounds known as Mayfair Hall. When a
family member is murdered, a mysterious pendant is found containing a
long lost request by Napoleon Bonaparte for an American mission to burn
down Parliament buildings. The couple sets out on an action filled
pursuit of the killer.

While interviewing Henry Clay in post-war
Maryland about the failed mission, they uncover evidence of a conspiracy
to free the Emperor from exile. The Darmons infiltrate the cadre, but a
shipwreck off the coast of Scotland, a firestorm at the Darmon’s Manor
and a harrowing assault on the Island of St. Helena loom before the
mystery can be unraveled.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

If
I start feeling too down, I step away from whatever’s bothering me and
do two things. 1) I listen to Elvis; particularly the song, “Blue
Hawaii.” 2) I drink a coke. Elvis and Coke are my leveling factors. If
I’m able to, I’ll also throw in some intense cardio at the gym. This
always seems to help me put my self-doubts and fears into perspective.

2. What scares you the most?

Call
me crazy, but I can’t handle being suspended from heights in a bucket.
So Ferris Wheels, cherry pickers, and gondolas are pretty much out for
me. And it’s not the heights. I have no fear of heights. It’s the fact
that I’m suspended from a bucket. Not really sure how to explain that
one.

3. What makes you happiest?

Laughing.
If I can find something to laugh about, life isn’t so bad. The good
moments are made even better, and the bad ones are brightened.

4. What’s your greatest character strength?

I
am fiercely loyal. Once I’ve decided that you’re “mine” I will think of
you that way forever. This could also be considered a flaw I suppose,
it’s burnt me before, but really I think you shouldn’t live life holding
back. If you’re too afraid to love people then you’ll never experience
the reward that comes from doing so.

5. What’s your weakest character trait?

I
have a tendency to be a firework. I go crazy, becoming completely
obsessed/motivated to get things done . . . for about three days. After
that, I fizzle out and loose all interest. Luckily, I have a husband who
helps me stay motivated, and with a lot of work, I’m starting to put
this weakness behind me slowly.

6. Why do you write?

I
write because it makes me happy. I love the adventure of discovering a
story that hasn’t been told before, and losing myself completely in it.
As an added bonus, the characters become my closest friends. I’m
happiest when I’m writing, and so I always try to be working or thinking
about some aspect of it.

7. Have you always enjoyed writing?

Believe
it or not, no. Writing was something I did because I had to for school,
work, or whatever else you want to throw in there. However, I have
always loved telling stories. Eventually that passion led to actually
writing them down. Now I’m hooked.

YOU CANNOT CHANGE THE LIFE YOU’VE BEEN GIVEN.

All
that you can do is make the most of what you’ve been dealt—fight a good
fight, resist being beaten by circumstance, and hope that somehow,
despite it all, you’re able to accomplish the impossible.

But even then you cannot change the fact that you were born cursed.

I am one of those unlucky few upon whom the Curse of the Four Fathers has fallen.

It
is I who must bear the burden of having a life that is unchangeably
intertwined with the Fae. A sorrow made all the more great by knowing
that where they are tragedy, loss, misery, and despair most assuredly
follow.

As
a Druid it is my responsibility to uphold the boundaries that keep the
worlds of the Tylwyth Teg, and our own, separate. As a man it is my only
ambition to protect the family and woman I so desperately love.

The only problem: I'm not sure this curse will allow for me to do both.